


A Road Less Traveled

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Car Sex, Frottage, M/M, car theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: Harry falls asleep in a stranger's car, and finds himself miles away from home.





	A Road Less Traveled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedHorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [RedHorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse) in the [TomarryFlashExchanges](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomarryFlashExchanges) collection. 

> Thanks so much to [FermionCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FermionCat/pseuds/FermionCat)
> 
> Written for the Problematic Ship Flash Fest, for RedHorse's prompt:
> 
> Harry’s been sleeping rough and on a cold night, he’s driven to slip into the backseat of an unlocked car for the night. The same car Sirius Black decides to steal later that same night.

Harry wasn't sure how he'd ended up there.

Or rather, he  _ had been _ —he just couldn't believe it had all happened so seamlessly.

The last thing he remembered was picking the lock to the door of the old car and falling, dead tired, into the backseat. Yes, he'd pulled his old, thick blanket over his head; and  _ yes _ , he'd locked the car again and curled up tight so that no passerbys would be able to tell there was someone sleeping inside.

But how  _ blind _ did someone have to be, to  _ not _ notice a fully grown adult sleeping in their backseat?

He tried not to panic, but it was difficult—he was no longer in the city he knew so well, on streets he called his home. By the looks of it, the buildings and houses had given way to trees and grass a while ago. Harry didn't know how long they'd been driving for already.

As far as he knew, they could be miles away from London.

And the man—Harry had believed he'd been the owner of the car, but there was something  _ off _ about him that made him change his mind. Harry could only see the back of his head, his face so slightly to the side that all he could see was thick, black hair and the tip of a straight nose. The man's hands were both on the wheel, gripping it as if it were a stress-ball, and for a second Harry couldn't help but notice the long, almost spidery shape of them, and how very pale they looked in the moonlight. There was a scar around the place where the thumb met his hand, right next to the knuckle, and when Harry looked a little more he noticed the edge of a tattoo from under the man's sleeve.

He wondered what it looked like.

And then the man's eyes—gunmetal grey and sharper than he'd expected—met his in the rearview mirror, and Harry realised he'd stretched too far.

What timing. The stranger pulled off the motorway into a smaller road, no lights for the next god-knew-how-many yards. It was pitch-black except for the headlights and the moon, and no cars around to shout for. Harry had never felt so terrified as he did then, the man's hand on the headrest of his seat as he turned to look at Harry.

And he was beautiful—his eyes heavy and slightly slanted, his cheekbones sharp and covered in stubble that only made him look more attractive. His mouth was unbearably pink, his hair falling into his face in imperfect waves, and he looked like a supermodel rather than a car thief. Harry could have slipped into foolish ease at the sight of his face and convinced himself that a man that pretty couldn't be anything except good. But the stranger was grinning, his teeth gleaming in the dark, and Harry felt suddenly like this man could do anything he wanted to him, and Harry wouldn't be able to stop him.

Like he could ruin Harry, and Harry would let him.

It was an uncomfortable thought, one that made him feel hot under the collar and sweaty around the palms. The man's eyes went to Harry's neck, to where his shirt hung loose around his collarbones, and then back up to Harry's mouth like it meant something.

And Harry didn't know what he wanted it to mean, but he knew it made him warm deliciously, somewhere in the pit of his belly. He knew it made him feel vulnerable, made him feel  _ naked _ —like every inch of skin bared to the strangers eyes was a call of some sort.

"Who are you?" He whispered. He didn't know why he whispered—it wasn't like anyone would hear them, but there was some sort of tension that hung suspended between them, and Harry was afraid that a sound too loud would break it.

"Could ask you the same thing," the man replied. Then, "I'm Sirius. And who are you, my little hitch-hiker?"

There was a teasing tone to his voice, like he and Harry had met at a café or bar and not the back of a stolen car, but there was something dark there too. Sirius smiled like he could kiss Harry or stab him in the same breath, and Harry couldn't help but feel a thrill at the thought. It was promptly followed by an ashamed wince, but Sirius seemed to have caught on to his naked fascination, and his face softened in response.

"You're just a little lost thing, aren't you sweetheart," he murmured. "Found yourself in the back of my car without meaning to, didn't you?"

"It's not your car though, is it," Harry replied, and then wanted to hit himself. Why did he have to be so stupid? Why couldn't he just pretend he didn't understand what was happening? But Sirius just laughed like Harry had said something unbearably endearing, and before Harry knew it he'd climbed between the two front seats and into the back, pushing Harry down so he hovered over him. He was so close like this, so warm, that Harry could almost taste the toffee and cigarettes on his breath. He was so much prettier up close, so much more handsome, that Harry could barely tell which way was up. He found himself getting lost in the smell of this man, in the sound of his breath and the calm beating of his heart, in the bulk of his thigh between Harry's legs. It was intoxicating, and too overwhelming for Harry to speak.

The man leaned in close, his lips inches from Harry's, his eyes dark and gleaming all at once, and said: "It's my car now." Then, he said: "I'm not going back to London."

Harry thought about this, thought about how he could leave the man at the next town and hitch a ride back to his city, to his home, but what was he actually leaving behind? Harry had never taken many risks—it got you robbed on the streets, got you killed, but Sirius was fascinating, wild and  _ exciting _ , perfect in a messy way, and Harry had been stuck roaming the same pavements and grey streets for so long that Sirius was like a breath of fresh air.

This might end up being the stupidest mistake he’d ever made. He might end up regretting this, might end up hating Sirius or himself or every choice that led them to ever even  _ look _ at each other, but Sirius' unspoken invitation was like a current, and Harry couldn't help but let himself be pulled along.

"My name's Harry," he replied, and Sirius understood. He pushed his palm into the shape of Harry's waist, pushed up his loose shirt like he was unwrapping a gift. He didn't kiss Harry, even though Harry wanted him to, was sure the desire was written all over his face. Instead he pulled Harry up and close, trailed his lips and nose and chin across the shape of Harry's collarbones like they were unreal, burned lines into them like he wanted to etch them into his memory. Harry found his breath quickening, found his fingers running through Sirius' perfect hair and his heart beating so fast that it was a wonder he couldn't feel it in his throat.

But Sirius was so slow, so gentle and at  _ ease _ , that a part of Harry wondered how many strangers he'd made eyes at in the back of someone else's car. He tightened his fingers in Sirius' hair, pulled him up so his entire body was pressing down into Harry's, and kissed him softly. Kissed him like they had all the time in the world, like Sirius was some new dream he was exploring for the first time. And wasn't he?

Sirius played with his skin, fingers tracing here and pinching there, his hands warm and large and firm, slipping up and up until Harry wondered if there was any point to his shirt at all. But Sirius didn't take it off. He settled against Harry, between Harry's legs, his hands pushing Harry's back up into an arch as he pushed his hips down, and warmth bloomed in the space between them. Harry spread his legs as wide as they'd go, pushing as close as he could.

And then Sirius straightened back up, shrugging off his jacket hurriedly to reveal a soft grey t-shirt under. He wore heavy boots and black jeans, Harry noticed distantly, and then couldn't think about anything except the black ink of Sirius' tattoo's against his wrist and biceps, and on the left side of his neck where it met his shoulder. Sirius saw him looking and smiled flirtatiously.

"You a fan, darling?" He asked. His voice was noticeably huskier than before, and it pleased Harry to know he'd had that effect. Instead of replying, he raised his hand and traced the shapes on Sirius' neck: arbitrary lines and tiny stars that looked like dots from afar. Sirius' hand wrapped around his wrist and Harry pressed his palm fully against the skin there.

"Sirius is a star," he was whispering. It was an explanation Harry only registered distantly. He hummed, his gaze flicking back to Sirius' lips like they'd been pulled there, and then they were kissing again. Sirius pushed into him, his hips moving slow and deliberate between Harry's legs, and Harry was so  _ into _ him, so warm and aroused and he hadn't felt like this in so long that he'd almost forgotten what it was like. The warmth built, in his cock and his stomach and where his hands were holding Harry up.

Sirius felt so heavy and hot and large, and a part of Harry wanted to push him down and take him into his mouth, wanted to strip bare in the back of a stranger's car on some dark, lonely road. But Sirius was pushing against him so good, and it felt so nice to just kiss him and touch his broad, well-formed shoulders that Harry just let him do as he pleased. Sirius’s stubble burned across Harry's skin and made his lips undeniably sore, but Harry couldn't stop kissing him—there was nothing except Sirius' weight on his body and pleasure, building slowly with every slow and desperate slide of his body. And Sirius was biting at him until Harry was gasping "More, please,  _ please _ ," his hands clutching fabric and air and he was coming, hot and perfect and messy, and Sirius was still pushing and thrusting and panting.

He moved hard against Harry until Harry was crying out from overstimulation. "So good," he told Harry, his face flushed and pink. "So  _ perfect _ , you darling boy," and he fucked into the space between Harry's legs until he was coming too.

Then he laid down his head on Harry's chest. Their breathing slowed and Harry moved his hand gently through Sirius' hair. It felt like an eternity before they moved. Harry climbed into the front without a word, and the night seemed endless as they drove until reaching some rest stop a few minutes away. Harry was afraid Sirius had gone off and left him behind while he was inside cleaning up, but the man was still waiting when he slipped back into the carpark, a warm paper bag of food on the seat next to him.

He looked at Harry like he knew what he was thinking, like he could see the fear of being left behind draining from Harry's face, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he waited while Harry buckled his seat belt. When Harry turned back he was met with a soft kiss, affectionate in a way that shouldn't make sense.

"Eat up, baby boy," Sirius said, and started the car.


End file.
